


and the world was born anew

by alakewood



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Artist Derek Hale, Background Relationships, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Just a little bit of Angst, M/M, Past Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alakewood/pseuds/alakewood
Summary: Derek is standing on the porch in worn gray sweats and a fraying green hoodie, barefoot with a hint of a smile on his face.“Are yousureyou’re sure about this?  I can still get a hotel,”  Stiles says, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.Derek rolls his eyes.  “Yes, Stiles.  I’msureI’m sure.  Now get up here and get inside.”When Derek turns to head back into the house, Stiles jogs up the stairs and follows him in.  A strange thrill trickles down his spine as he closes the door and finds himself immersed completely in Derek Hale’s space.





	and the world was born anew

Just before Stiles reaches the _Welcome to Beacon Hills_ sign, he flips on his blinker and turns left down a freshly graveled road, kicking up a dust cloud that glows red in his taillights. The lane meanders into thicker woods as he nears the edge of the preserve, then climbs and ends atop a gently sloped hill where a beautiful cabin rises out of a small clearing. A couple of windows on the first floor are brightly lit and sconces on either side of the front door cast a welcoming halo that spills down the stairs and off of the wrap-around porch to the pale paving stones of the walkway.

The gravel becomes asphalt and widens into a driveway that curves around the side of the house. Stiles slows his rental car and creeps into the space beside a newer version of a familiar dark-colored car. He parks and turns the keys back in the ignition, listens to the engine tick as it cools in the below-average temperature of a Northern California winter. (Or, almost-winter, as it’s still two days until the solstice.) The forecast is calling for snow and Stiles can’t quite fully remember the last time Beacon Hills celebrated a white Christmas, but knows his mother was still alive.

When the cabin of the car starts to lose heat and Stiles’ breath is fogging up the windows, he takes a deep breath and finally climbs from the car, pausing to grab his duffel from the backseat.

Derek is standing on the porch in worn gray sweats and a fraying green hoodie, barefoot with a hint of a smile on his face.

“Are you _sure_ you’re sure about this? I can still get a hotel,” Stiles says, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stiles. I’m _sure_ I’m sure. Now get up here and get inside.”

When Derek turns to head back into the house, Stiles jogs up the stairs and follows him in. A strange thrill trickles down his spine as he closes the door and finds himself immersed completely in Derek Hale’s space. Stiles had almost forgotten that unique scent that was all Derek, clean and slightly musky and completely wild. It always evoked a mental image of a thunderstorm over the place where the ocean and a cedar forest met, dark and electric. It’s a heady sensation when juxtaposed within the confines of Derek’s home.

Stiles gives himself a moment to take everything in: the warm, rich stain of the hardwood floors; the palest cream of the paint on the walls; the plush burgundy couch and mismatched navy and gray easy chairs; the different types of wooden accents from the coffee table, the side table, the mantle, to the floating shelves; the fire crackling in rustic fireplace; the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the view into the back yard and the woods beyond and reflect a cheerily lit Christmas tree. Derek’s looking at him with amusement in the creased corners of his eyes and the soft smirk of his mouth. He raises his brows at Stiles in question and tilts his head towards an arched cased opening that leads to a hallway.

Derek glances over his shoulder at Stiles, pointing out the first door and explaining, “This is one guest room,” then the next door, “the guest bathroom. I put fresh towels in the closet this morning.” The hall ends with a narrow table that holds some kind of tiny pine tree decorated with little twinkle lights beneath a high leaded glass window. There are doors on either side of the hall; Derek gestures to the closed door on the left. “That’s me.” He opens the door on the right and flips on the switch. “This is you. There are extra blankets and pillows in the closet if you need them. I’ll let you settle in. You can find me in the kitchen when you’re ready.” He starts to move in, hesitates for a nano second, then continues to close the distance between them, surprising Stiles with a hug. “It’s good to see you.”

Stiles almost forgets to hug back, but drops his bag to the floor to get both arms around Derek. “Yeah,” he says, “you, too.”

It’s hard to miss the faint rise of color on Derek’s cheeks in the well-lit hallway, but he’s walking backwards towards the living room as soon as they separate. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Stiles stands there for a moment, marveling over the slight, not-bad weirdness, then picks up his bag and moves into the room. It’s a bit larger than he expected, with a good sized bed draped in a navy duvet. The decor gives him Cape Cod vibes, which in turn bring up memories of the weekend he and Lydia spent at Martha’s Vineyard. He shakes his head and sets his duffel on the bench at the foot of the bed to start unpacking. He doesn’t want to think about his relationship with Lydia right now.

The dresser drawers are empty and Stiles organizes the select few things he brought into one. Because he’s an adult and adults don’t live out of duffel bags. He’s tempted to shuck his hoodie - it’s plenty warm inside - but old habits and all that. He needs layers like armor in Beacon Hills.

When Stiles leaves the room, he leaves the door open and slowly walks down the hall, allowing himself to pause at each piece of framed art that decorates the walls. The watercolors showcase nature scenes in a vivid, dreamlike quality. Some elements are painstakingly defined while others are more of an impressionistic suggestion. None of the pieces are signed.

Derek is sliding a pizza - homemade from the looks of it - from a tarnished peel onto a cutting board on the counter. “I figured you’d be hungry after the drive. Which, how was it, by the way?”

Stiles settles himself on one of the stools at the bar top above the counter where Derek’s cutting the pizza into slices. “Uh, it was good. Traffic was surprisingly light on the 5.”

Derek nods, moving the cutting board up to the bar top next to Stiles and turns to open the fridge. “You want a beer? Or I’ve got soda and water, too.”

“A beer sounds good. Thanks.”

Derek twists the caps off two bottles and tosses them onto the counter, setting one bottle in front of Stiles as he sits on the stool beside him. They’re quiet for a few moments as they each take a slice and start eating. “I asked your dad-” Derek starts to say just as Stiles begins talking.

“The paintings-” Stiles stops, grabs himself another piece of pizza, and gestures for Derek to continue. “Sorry. Go ahead. What were you going to say?”

“I, uh, I ran into your dad a couple of days ago. I invited him over for dinner. You can sort out the details, just let me know when and I’ll clear out for you.”

“Dude, no. I’m not kicking you out of your house. I already feel like I’m intruding-”

“I told you: you’re more than welcome here. As much as I enjoy my space, it’s nice to have company.”

“Yeah, but… _my_ company? You might live to regret that, man.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Again. Stiles wonders if he should be worried they might fall right out of Derek’s head. He’d known Derek had changed a lot between then time he’d left after Kate’s second return and when he came back to help them defeat Gerard. But it seems he’s changed even more since then. With every year that passes, his rough spots and sharp, jagged edges are softened and smoothed more and more. Those few weeks he’d regressed to his sixteen-year-old self, Stiles had caught a glimpse of the man Derek could have become: unburdened, extroverted, borderline cocky. Completely unjaded. Trusting. Optimistic. The Derek beside him is many of those things. He’s grown so much and Stiles is kind of disappointed to have missed it. But he was busy doing his own growing up.

“Seriously, though. I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate you letting me stay.”

It’s a near thing, but Derek somehow manages to not roll his eyes, instead says, “You’re welcome. Now, what were _you_ going to say?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just going to ask about the paintings in your hall. They’re really good.” _Lame_ , Stiles thinks to himself. So lame. Derek’s trying to have an actual conversation and Stiles is basically making idle smalltalk.

However, the comment has had an unintended effect: Derek’s ears are turning red. “Oh,” he says. “Thanks.”

Stiles sets his beer down and turns to face Derek more fully. “You?”

“When I was staying with Cora, one of her pack mates suggested art therapy. They lived in the Sacred Valley in Peru and there’s a pretty big artisan culture there. I’ve tried a few different things from pottery to textile weaving, but painting kind of stuck.”

“That’s—It’s really great, Derek. _You’re_ really great. I mean, your art is really great.” _The lamest. Stiles is the lamest._

Derek’s gaze is determinedly set on the bottle of beer in his hand. “Thank you.”

It’s clear that while Derek appreciates Stiles’ praise, he’s also a bit embarrassed. “My mom taught me to knit when I was kid. Or, well, _tried_ to teach me to knit. This was before I was diagnosed. She thought if I could learn it would help calm me down, bit I couldn’t really focus long enough to do more than a couple rows.”

Derek nods, glancing at Stiles and flashing a brief smile as he reaches for another slice of pizza. “You ever tried picking it up again? The handmade community has grown quite a bit over the past five-ten years. Knitting is supposed to be a pretty good stress reliever.”

“I actually haven’t even thought about that in… _years_.” He doesn’t think knitting is exactly his kind of stress reliever. He prefers to get a little more physical. “So, is that what painting is for you, then? Stress relief?”

“Sometimes. But it’s fun and… it makes me happy, I guess?” He rolls his bottle between his palms and shrugs. “I enjoy creating something from nothing with my own hands.”

“Well, like I said, it’s really good. Have you, like, shown in a gallery or anything?”

Derek scoffs and scratches at his beard. “No. I’m not… I’m okay.”

Stiles senses he’s wandered into a sensitive topic. “What about Browse & Brew? They sell more than just books, don’t they? I think Dad said he picked up a pair of earrings for Natalie there.”

“Yeah, they also sell crafts and things.”

“Maybe you could look into that?”

“I don’t know,” Derek shrugs. “Maybe.” They’re silent for a few moments, the discussion obviously over, then Derek swallows the last of his beer and stands. “You want another?”

Stiles’ has a little less than a third of his bottle left. “Nah. I’ll take a glass of water, though.”

With a nod, Derek rounds the end of the counter and grabs two glasses from a cabinet next the sink as he passes, leaving his bottle beside it. He fills them from a pitcher in the fridge, setting one next to Stiles’ bottle as he drinks from the other. It’s quiet for a long time before Derek speaks again. “You never said, and I guess I didn’t ask, but why aren’t you staying with your dad?”

It’s only fair, Stiles supposes. He prodded at what’s apparently a tender spot of Derek’s, so Derek’s poking at one of his in turn. “Because Lydia’s staying with our parents. It’s almost been a year but things are still pretty strained.”

Derek shifts and leans against the counter opposite Stiles. “So, what happened there? Scott made it sound like you were on the road to marriage.”

Stiles bobs his head, finishes off his beer. Scott knows part of the story, most of the basics, but not everything. The same for his dad. Aside from himself and Lydia, he’s not sure anyone else knows _everything._ Maybe Jackson, since he and Lydia became BFFs after his brief return to Beacon Hills. For whatever reason, Stiles _wants_ to tell Derek. “I bought a ring,” he says, looking up at Derek to gauge his reaction. He gets an eyebrow-raise, but not much else. “I’d had it since before I graduated from Quantico. I was going to propose last Christmas—cliche, I know—when our parents were visiting us in San Francisco. But—I don’t remember how we even got to to talking about it. I think she said something about my enthusiasm for Christmas and I said, ‘You think I’m bad? Our kids will be so much worse.’ We’d never really talked about it before, us having kids. And she didn’t want to have any. I did. Or, well, I do. I want a family. So, literally hours before our parents were due to arrive, we sat down and talked about our future, or, I guess, our _lack_ of one, and decided we’d fake it for our parents for the holidays at least. She was on her way to her dream job at Stanford and I got myself a transfer up to Sacramento field office by mid-January. And that was it. So, this year, I got Thanksgiving and she gets Christmas. Hopefully things’ll be less weird next year.”

“Oh,” is all Derek says for a long moment. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. I guess I just wish we’d had the conversation sooner. I mean, we had a pregnancy scare junior year of college and Lydia had a pretty standard freak-out. It was to be expected, you know? We’d just moved in together earlier that year, we hadn’t graduated yet, it was just too soon. But she never said anything about _never_ wanting kids. She just didn’t want one then. At least, that’s what I thought. After that is when I bought the ring. After we found out she wasn’t pregnant, I mean.”

“After growing up with such a big family,” Derek says slowly, holding Stiles’ gaze, “I can’t imagine not having one of my own.”

The air between them feels charged. From the moment he stepped inside the house, Stiles felt like he was waiting for something. He’s seen Derek a handful of times since the whole pack got together to defeat Gerard, but they’ve been like ships in the night, just missing each other during brief visits to Beacon Hills. They’ve exchanged texts and emails and a couple of phone calls, but this is the first time in almost seven years that they’ve spent more than a few minutes in each others’ company. He takes a moment to consider that he’s misreading things, as he’s been known to do in his past. But he’s become a pretty damn good FBI agent, and a lot of that’s due to his uncanny ability to correctly interpret facts and his unparalleled gut instinct. Chalk it all up to his formative teenage years spent consumed by the supernatural and a lifetime growing up with the best damn cop for a father. So, no, Stiles doesn’t think he’s misinterpreting the signals he’s getting from Derek. It kind of feels like a long time coming. Stiles nods, keeping eye contact. “Being an only kid was pretty lonely. After my mom died, I had a lot of anxiety about losing my dad, too. I think, if I’d had a brother or a sister, I wouldn’t have worried as much. I don’t know.”

“Makes sense,” Derek says. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t had Laura after the fire. Things were bad enough, I can’t imagine how much worse they would’ve been had I been alone.”

Stiles knows losing his mother was terrible, but she’d been sick for a long time and, while Stiles hadn’t known it was coming, his father knew his mother’s illness was terminal. What happened to Derek’s family was an absolute tragedy. It was devastating in a way nothing else could ever be to a sixteen year old kid. Stiles can’t see how the two scenarios match up beyond basic similarities. Regardless, he’s doubtful Derek ever really talks about the fire, so he’s not going to say anything.

Derek pushes off the counter with a self-deprecating laugh. “Anyway, I’m sorry about Lydia.”

“Teenage Stiles was utterly heartbroken. Adult Stiles is moving on.”

The smile Stiles receives is excruciatingly fond. “Adult Stiles looks exhausted. It’s okay if he wants to turn in for the night.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. “Okay. I’ll take the hint. Not all of us age with werewolf grace.”

Derek own eyes flash blue. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Goodnight, Sourwolf. Thanks for dinner.”

**+++**

Living with Derek is surprisingly easy. Derek makes breakfast then they both go their separate ways: Derek upstairs to his studio in the loft, and Stiles to town to make his rounds. The first two days, Stiles returns with dinner. The third, the night of the solstice, Derek makes them an early dinner before disappearing into the woods behind his house to do werewolfy things. The following day, Stiles learns from Scott that all the wolves and the few coyotes in town gathered for a run.

Since Gerard declared war on the supernatural and the whole town learned the truth of what was going on around them in not just the shadows, but in broad daylight, too, Beacon Hills has become a haven for supernatural creatures of all kinds. People aren’t quite flocking to the city in droves, but there’s been a definite rise in the population. There’s enough of a supernatural presence that his father, in conjunction with Stiles’ superiors at the FBI, including Rafe McCall, are in the midst of putting together a Supernatural Investigations Unit. It’s part of the reason Stiles is in town. If an agreement can be made, with financial backing from the federal government, Stiles might be relocating back to Beacon Hills from Sacramento to lead the unit under remote supervision from both his father and Rafe.

Somehow, it becomes the main topic of conversation when Stiles’ dad comes over for dinner Christmas Eve. Stiles insisted on making everything himself and everything but the ham is done by the time his father is parked on a stool beside Derek with a beer. “Have you decided yet?” John asks.

Stiles glances over his shoulder from where he’s stirring butter into the bowl of corn to look first at Derek, then his father. “Has the funding come through yet?”

“Rafe called this morning. It’s just a matter of signing some paperwork.”

Stiles nods to himself. “Then I guess I’ll accept the offer.”

“What offer?” Derek asks after a beat.

Stiles keeps his back to them both when, behind him, his father says, “Stiles didn’t tell you?”

“I didn’t know if anything was even going to come of it,” Stiles says. “You and I both know how the government’s been about spending after the farce of Trump’s administration.”

“The FBI is kind of teaming up with local law enforcement to start a Supernatural Investigations Unit. To those not in the know, it’ll be a _Special_ Investigations Unit, under purview of the Sheriff’s Department. Stiles is going to head it.”

Stiles finally turns around and watches Derek’s reaction. His father doesn’t miss it, either, looking between the two of them until something clicks and his eyes widen with more surprise than Derek’s had. He tilts his head slightly to the side as he squints at Stiles then glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye as a slow grin spreads across his face. “So,” Derek says, crossing his arms in front of himself on the counter and leaning further forward, “you’re moving back to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles slides his gaze from his father to Derek. “I am.”

“Good,” he says, not even trying to hold back his smile. “That’s good.” He claps a hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’re glad to have Stiles coming back home.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. He didn’t make it up here often enough. It’ll be nice to have him where I can keep an eye on him.”

“That’s what _you_ think,” Stiles mutters, resuming his dinner prep. “I know _all about_ your doughnut habits. Your days of bear claws for breakfast are _over._ ” Derek’s laughing behind him and his dad has no idea what’s so funny, and Stiles feels settled and at peace in a way he hasn’t in years.

**+++**

Because his father didn’t say anything about whatever it was he saw between him and Derek, Stiles allows him a second slice of pumpkin pie and let him bow out early with the excuse of age and a full belly. When Derek invites him to come around for dinner any time, Stiles sees the twinkle in his eyes and all but rushes him out the door with a hug and a _Merry Christmas_ called after him.

Derek’s already started on cleanup when Stiles returns to the kitchen. “So, is that what’s been keeping you busy during the day since you got here?”

“Basically.” He transfers the rest of the ham into a Tupperware container and puts it into the fridge. “I caught up with Scott and Malia a couple times but I was mostly meeting with Dad and Rafe, going over lists of candidates for the team. A friend of Natalie’s is a real estate agent so Dad had set up a couple of viewings for me.”

Derek nods as he stretches a piece of saran wrap over the leftover pie. He glances up at Stiles as he passes him on his way to the fridge. “You can stay here as long as you need.”

Stiles reaches out for Derek and gently squeezes his forearm. “I appreciate that, thanks. I’ll still have to go back to Sacramento to get things sorted there, but I’ll be back in a couple weeks or so.”

After they finish putting the leftovers away, Derek hefts the bottle of whiskey John had brought with him. “Night cap?”

“Sure.” He turns and grabs two tumblers from the cabinet.

Derek pours them each a couple of fingers, but keeps Stiles’ glass and leads him to the couch in the living room. “Sit,” he says, handing Stiles the tumbler once he’s settled in front of the fire. Derek sets his own glass down on the coffee table and disappears for a minute, turning off the lights until just the tree is on. He picks up the glass and sinks down beside Stiles, close enough they’re flush from shoulder to hip to knee until Derek lifts his arm and rests it along the back of the couch behind Stiles’ head. He raises his tumbler and holds it out for Stiles to clink his own against it. “Merry Christmas.”

Stiles lets himself relax into Derek’s side, rests a tentative hand on Derek’s knee as he meets his gaze. “Merry Christmas.” He takes a sip of his whiskey and watches Derek do the same, then Derek’s reaching across him to put his glass on the side table, takes Stiles’ from him, too. And, before he knows what’s happening, Derek’s palm is rasping over the stubble on Stiles’ cheek, cradling his jaw as he pulls him into a kiss. Stiles’ hand curls around the side of Derek’s neck before trailing down his chest, fingers clenching in the fabric of his sweater as he opens his mouth to the kiss. Want zings down his spine and curls his toes and he has to fight back the urge to swing a leg over Derek’s and straddle his lap. They need to take this slow. He _wants_ to take this slow. If the way Derek’s touching him is any indicator, he’s good with slow, too.

All too soon, Derek’s pulling away, pressing chaste little kisses to Stiles’ lips, the corner of his mouth, dragging the tip of his nose along the edge of his jaw and down his throat where he kisses Stiles’ thrumming pulse. With a final kiss to his mouth, Derek reaches for their glasses and returns Stiles’ to his hand.

Stiles settles back into place against Derek’s side, beneath his arm, resting his cheek on Derek’s shoulder as they both stare at at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree and the flickering flames in the fireplace. He reaches up across himself with his right hand to where Derek’s left is skimming along his bicep and threads their fingers together.

As much as the child in Stiles loves Christmas and all it entails, as an adult he’s become aware of the holiday’s many cliches. But, he’s starting to believe again in the magic of the season and it’s hopeful promise of new beginnings. It’s thrilling in a way only a few things in his life have ever been—in fact, he can count them all on one hand—but the thought of being with Derek, even the tentative possibility of making a life with him here, has him feeling infinitely optimistic. Unstoppable. Limitless. Stiles feels his heart race with excitement as he thinks about what’s to come.

He can feel Derek smile in response when his beard chafes against Stiles’ temple as he gives Stiles’ fingers a gentle squeeze.

**+++**

They finish their whiskey as the fire dies down, Stiles drowsing against Derek’s chest. The third time his tumbler nearly slips from his fingers, Derek pulls him up from the couch and leads him down the dark hallway to the door of his room. He pushes the door open for Stiles, then pulls him close to press a slow, tender kiss to his mouth. “Go, sleep,” he whispers, holding Stiles for a long moment.

Stiles sleepily savors the feel of him, his warmth, the weight of Derek’s arms around him, before Derek nudges him into his room. Stiles leans against the door frame and watches Derek cross the hall to his own room. He’s tired, can barely keep his eyes open, but he doesn’t want to stop looking at Derek. “‘Night.”

Derek lingers in his doorway. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight.”

Derek’s grin is absurdly fond. “Go to bed, Stiles.” He shakes his head and disappears into his room.

Stiles watches the space where he was for a moment longer before retreating to the bed and the siren call of its heavenly mattress. “Don’t let the wendigos bite.” He’s pretty sure he imagines it, but he can hear Derek laughing as he falls asleep.

**+++**

end

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the fic I intended to write. This is also the first fic I've written and posted in over a year: you may notice I'm a little rusty. If you made it this far, thank you and I appreciate you. xx


End file.
